


The Wrong Genius

by Trista_zevkia



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock BBC, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-15
Updated: 2012-07-15
Packaged: 2017-11-10 08:03:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/464039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trista_zevkia/pseuds/Trista_zevkia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even genius can be wrong; wrong in what they say or wrong in how they treat a person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wrong Genius

**Author's Note:**

> A pitch-hit for the [Sherlock Reverse Big Bang](http://sherlockrebang.livejournal.com/)

**Artist Extraordinary:**[harehare](http://harehare.livejournal.com/)  
 **Beta Goddess:**[ecto-gammat](http://ecto-gammat.livejournal.com/) All remaining mistakes are mine own, as I can't leave well enough alone.

  
The Wrong Genius

  
Four hours at work, sixteen patients, four boils. Two were large, pulsing things that had to be lanced, with all the pus that entailed. Another one could have been fought with medication, but was in the bikini line, so considerate Dr. Watson had lanced it as the client wished. The first boil of the day had just been growing in and some ointment and a diet of raisins and walnuts would take care of it. Dr. Watson should have known that would be the nicest boil of the day; it had just been that kind of week. 

  
Sherlock didn’t have a case, which meant a solid week of frustrating boredom guaranteed to drive even flatmates with the patience of a saint right up the ruddy wall. John wanted to get back to the flat and do nothing for a while, but watching his wallet meant he was walking. It was only a light rain, nice enough for a man who’d spent a long time in a desert, refreshing in its own way. At least until he turned a corner, noticed there were no cabs on this street, and the skies let loose in a mocking torrential downpour. John was halfway down the street when the black car pulled up beside him, door opening in invitation. Resigned to his fate as the favorite kidnapping victim of people on both sides of the law, John got into the car. 

  
“Anthea.” 

  
“A change of clothes has been provided.” 

  
A glance showed a zippered garment bag and two towels on the other side of the backseat. The car wasn’t as warm as it could be for a man soaked to his shorts, and Anthea never looked up from her blackberry, so John sighed and started to pull off his clothes. Once his chest was bare John dried off with one of the proffered towels, using it as a kilt as he pulled off his slacks and shorts. Dry enough and mostly covered, John opened the garment bag. 

  
Black silk pants hung in front of a black shirt, and a quick look showed they were his size. What else would he have expected (though he did wonder which of Mycroft’s minions was assigned to determining his preferred size in pants)? Sliding the pants on under his towel and the shirt above, John was able to look at the suit. Charcoal grey striped with white, defined lapels and three buttons. Half naked in another man’s car wasn’t the place to quibble, so John pulled the pants off the hanger and onto his legs. The jacket was snugger then John preferred, but putting it on let him dig through the rest of the garment bag. A pocket on the back held socks and fancy shoes, but no sign of a tie. 

  
“No tie?” John asked as he pulled the socks on. 

  
“Mycroft didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.” Anthea didn’t look up from her blackberry until John’s laughter carried on for a solid minute. 

  
“He kidnaps me on a regular basis, but this time with a change of clothes and freaky foreknowledge of the weather, and he thinks a tie would make me uncomfortable?” John finally managed to control himself enough to ask, and Anthea almost smiled at him. Well, she twitched her lips and John chose to take that as an almost smile as he laced up his shoes. 

  
“We have arrived.” Was all she said, seconds before the car slowed to a stop. 

  
John reached for the door, only to have it open from the outside. A uniformed doorman held the door open and an umbrella over John’s head until he made it to the awning. This wasn’t Mycroft’s club, he was at some fancy restaurant John had never heard off and would never be able to afford. He tried not to look as nervous as he felt as he stepped inside. The maître d’e took one look at him and stepped forward. John was expecting to be kicked out, despite the suit, just for sticking his nose into the place. 

  
“Sir, if you will follow me.” 

  
John followed the maître d’e and tried not to blush at the people waiting for a table that he was bypassing. Mycroft was perusing the menu and spoke to the maître d’e in fluent French while John sat. With a pleased look, the maître d’e took the menus away, heading for the kitchen and not the front of the restaurant. 

  
“Dr. Watson, how was your day?” 

  
John was very tempted to tell Mycroft about the boils in lurid detail, including a discussion of just how much puss could be held inside such a thing. Instead, John smiled and made small talk. 

  


¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˉ\\(ɂ)/ˉ

  
Mycroft received a call just after dessert, leaving John to finish his meal alone. Anthea joined him a few minutes later and ignored him until he was done. When she stood, John followed, not surprised to see the bill never came up. The rain was finished, but the black car was already waiting on them. John was let out at Baker Street, his now clean and dry clothes in the garment bag. Mrs. Hudson’s flat was quiet, so John went directly to his. Flipping the lights on showed Sherlock had been lying on the couch in the same position since John had left for work. Sherlock shot him an annoyed look, but it changed when he saw John. 

  
“What happened to you?” 

  
John blinked, mind frozen at the confusion in Sherlock’s voice as he _asked_ what had happened. 

  
“John?” 

  
“You can’t tell?” 

  
Sherlock stalked toward him, managing to make it look perfectly natural for him to spring to a standing position and step over the coffee table in one movement. His laser focus scanned over John, taking in details. 

  
“Bad day at work, bad week. Someone must have figured that out, took you to dinner. But why the clothes? And which of you acquaintances could afford _La Parrott Azure?”_

  
“Is that where we were? I didn’t see any signs, or the menus.” 

  
“So they ordered for you, and you enjoyed it. Who knows you that well and you trust them enough to eat what they choose?” 

  
A deducing Sherlock was a happy Sherlock, so John moved into the flat. Tossing the garment bag on his chair, he went to put the kettle on. 

  
“You still have trust issues, so you don’t trust anybody.” 

  
“I trust you.” John replied without thinking, mind on the soothing ritual of tea. 

  
“But I didn’t take you out.” 

  
“Obviously. Besides, you’re wrong.” 

  
“Am I?” Sherlock wasn’t ready to believe anything as farfetched as that. 

  
“I don’t trust this person not to poison me so much as know that if they wanted me dead, there were cheaper ways to go about it than that restaurant and this suit. You think they gave me this suit so I’d have something decent to be buried in?” 

  
“You’ll have your uniform for that, if you want the military to pay for your funeral.” A wave of the hand dismissed this as unimportant, and John knew better than to take it to heart. “It’s a nice suit, not something you can afford. Clearly, it was purchased with you in mind, even tailored so the left side doesn’t puff up where your wound lowers your shoulder by two centimeters. But you’ve not been to a tailor since you’ve been back in London. I’m the only one who’d notice the asymmetry in your shoulders, except…”

  
John held up a hand. “It wasn’t Moriarty, though it was one of your archenemies.” 

  
“Mycroft wouldn’t buy you that suit.” Sherlock scoffed, though he had to know John wasn’t lying. “Mycroft likes ‘classic’ or, as you know it, old and stodgy.” 

  
“Sometimes, when you buy something for someone else, you have to match it to their tastes and preferences.” 

  
“Are you sure it was Mycroft, or have you found a way to lie to me?” 

  
John rolled his eyes at that, turning to the now boiling kettle. 

  
“Why?” Sherlock asked John’s back. 

  
“No idea really. He picked me up on the ride home, gave me the suit and took me to dinner. We didn’t even spend the time talking about you.” 

  
“He’ll want something from you soon enough, just wait and see.” 

  
John nodded in agreement before handing Sherlock a cuppa and making his way to his room. He needed out of the suit before he spilled something on it, or he needed to return it. At the foot of the stairs, John turned slowly to find Sherlock. He was standing in the kitchen doorway, watching John. 

  
“Sherlock, please don’t damage the suit, I’d like to return it to Mycroft instead of doing that favor.” 

  
Sherlock looked disappointed, but gave a curt nod. 

  
John went to his room, thinking it was pretty sad he had to play into the archenemies thing in order to protect his property. No doubt the suit cost more than John made in a year, but it would really help a man on the pull. And a man with Sherlock on his side needed all the help he could get. 

  


¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˉ\\(ɂ)/ˉ

  
A week and half later, the suit was nestled in the garment bag and hanging in the back of John’s wardrobe. Mycroft hadn’t called in that favor, and Sherlock hadn’t needed the material for an experiment. It was just enough to lull John into forgetting about the whole thing and read his book after lunch. Sherlock didn’t even look up from his ‘bored comatose on the couch’ pose when John’s phone rang. John answered without looking, figuring it was locum work. 

  
“Dr. Watson.” 

  
“Greetings, Doctor.” 

  
Several things flashed through John’s mind at the recognition that came with that voice, and he did his best not to disturb Sherlock by changing his voice or speaking a certain name out loud. 

  
“Hello. What can I do for you?” 

  
“I take it you are trying not to attract Sherlock’s attention to this call? Probably a wise move, as it has been four days without a case.” 

  
“Four and half.” John couldn’t help it; a bored Sherlock made John count hours. 

  
Sherlock lifted his head to focus on John where he talked, and John tried not to groan. Of course Sherlock would also know just how long his attitude had been irritating John, so he now knew he was the subject of the conversation. 

  
“Forgive me, that problem in Syria must have taken up more of my attention that I knew.” 

  
“Quite all right, Mycroft.” Might as well get it over with, John thought. 

  
Sherlock sent John an all knowing smirk, before dropping his head heavily on the couch cushion. 

  
“As for the purpose of this call,” Mycroft paused dramatically. 

  
Here it comes, John thought, Mycroft is ready to ask for his favor. He could almost hear Sherlock smirking as he stared at the ceiling. 

  
“I find I have a spare ticket to a movie premier this evening, and wonder if you would accompany me.” 

  
“Me?” 

  
“Because of your relationship with my brother, I have the security clearances at the ready.” 

  
“Right.” John had no idea what to say to that. “What movie is it?” 

  
“I find I do not have the full title before me, thought I do believe it is based on the literary works of Tolkien.” 

  
“Wait, that movie’s not supposed to come out for months, and who has a premier on a Tuesday?” 

  
“Perhaps premier is the wrong phrase. Let us consider it instead a private screening. I simply know of your fondness for movies and thought you might enjoy it.” 

  
“Bloody right you are. I mean, yes, thank you. I’ve wanted to see that movie for a while, though I’ve not had much time to follow all the information on the internet. Do you know if the dragon was voiced by Leonard Nimoy like the early rumors said?” 

  
“I do not, but if I pick you up at five this evening, we can share a nice meal before finding out.” 

  
“Sounds great.” 

  
“Very good. And John, I do hate to ask, but could you wear the suit?” 

  
“No problem. I figured this was going to be a formal event when you said premier.” 

  
“Until then.” 

  
“Goodbye.” When John looked up from his phone, Sherlock was squatting on the couch, hands under his chin and staring at John. “It’s kind of creepy to have a vulture on the couch.” 

  
“Why is Mycroft taking you to a movie?” 

  
“Says my security clearances are lined up. I don’t know why that matters, but I want to see the movie.” 

  
“Oh, it’s just another private screening with some member of royalty or something. Why not Anthea?” 

  
“He needs her to topple a small country during while he has an alibi?” John was only half joking, but it got Sherlock up and moving. Sherlock went to his room, slamming the door dramatically behind him. John figured it was his quality time with crap telly, at least until he had to get ready to go. 

  


¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˉ\\(ɂ)/ˉ

  
Sherlock hadn’t been in the flat when John returned, humming a song about cracking plates of all things. His text got vague but not worrisomely vague replies, so John went about things. It wasn’t until he was leaving for home from an afternoon shift on Thursday that John was contacted by Sherlock. A text informed him about a new case, so John took the address and went to find a cab. The black car with dark windows and doors that opened when John appeared was even better, as John didn’t have to pay for it. Mycroft was in the car, instead of just Anthea and her blackberry appendage. 

  
“Sherlock texted about a case.” 

  
“Yes, I have given the address to my driver.” 

  
“Thank you.” John said, always so polite. “Were you just in the neighborhood?” 

  
“Would you believe me if I said I was?” Mycroft gave an amused but tiny smile. 

  
“No, not really.” 

  
“Very good, John. I actually came to see you, hoping you could help me with a little medical mystery.” 

  
“I would have thought you could get the best doctors in the world for such things.” 

  
“I do.” Mycroft said simply, handing over a e-tablet. 

  
John felt himself flushing slightly at the implied complement, glad to look at the tablet while he willed it away. Finally he was able to read over the symptoms and make a diagnosis. 

  
“Symptoms suggest gastro esophageal reflux disease, or maybe irritable bowel syndrome, but this woman will have to go for an endoscopy to be sure.” 

  
“Thank you. She’s in a safe house and having trouble eating the food we provide. We know she’s not pregnant and wanted to limit the number of doctors she saw in person, for her safety.” Mycroft gave a small smile as the car slowed to stop, and placed a hand on John’s shoulder. “John, that was an actual complement to your abilities. I pray you don’t allow my brother’s inability to complement you diminish your self-respect.” 

  
The door opened and Mycroft dropped his hand, so John was allowed to stumble out of the car. He knew he was in a full blush this time, and noticed the crime scene was in an alley. Though the body was blocked off from public view, every cop in the area had only to turn a little and see that blush. John thought about turning away until the blush faded, just as Lestrade looked over and saw him. 

  
“John’s here.” He said to Sherlock, who looked around. 

  
John looked behind him, noticing the black car was pulling out. Walking toward the scene, John nodded a greeting to the constable who lifted the tape for him. Pulling gloves out of the baggie he kept in his pocket, John put them on as he got closer to the body. Normally he’d wait until the last minute to do this, limiting the amount of contaminates he might carry into the crime scene, but he needed something to look at other than Sherlock. Who knew what bizarre theories Sherlock had cooked up to explain Mycroft giving John a ride? The body was easy to diagnose and John only had to touch it a little before he stood and faced Lestrade. 

  
“Going by the amount of blood and the defense wounds on his arms, I’d say he was putting up a hell of fight when he head was shoved against that fire escape rung. While he was slowly figuring out he was dead, body still kind of moving, they stabbed him until he fell. Hemorrhage in the brain would have taken a couple of minutes to kill him, but the limited amount of blood around the stab wounds says he was mostly dead when stabbed.” 

  
“Mostly dead, Doctor?” Lestrade asked, the amusement clear in his voice. 

  
“Only one thing to do when they’re all dead.” John shrugged back, grinning. 

  
“Go through their pockets and look for loose change.” Sally piped up behind them, before looking embarrassed for knowing that movie reference. 

  
“What are you lot going on about?” Sherlock demanded, hating to be left out of the loop, even as he despised the loop. 

  
“Pop culture, Sherlock, a movie.” John explained, waiting for Sherlock’s cries of annoyance at tiny minds. 

  
“Yes, Lestrade and Donavan like movies. Are you going to date them now?” 

  
“What?” John couldn’t tell how many people asked that question, but from Sherlock’s focus, John knew he was the one Sherlock was answering. 

  
“You’re dating Mycroft because he likes movies, why not everybody else in the world that likes movies?” 

  
“I’m not dating your brother!” 

  
“Dinner, movie, expensive gifts, and I think the next step is to show an interest in your work.” 

  
John tried to force down the heat in his cheeks, and anger helped with that. “It’s not like that.” 

  
“Clearly nobody believes you when you say such things, or else everywhere we go people wouldn’t assume we were dating.” A flap of a hand dismissed John’s opinion on things. “Did he order you to go? I can see how that would work with a military mind.” 

  
“You think I do everything that I get ordered to do?” 

  
“Military training is to follow orders John, everybody knows that.” 

  
John turned his head, catching Lestrade’s eye. They broke into laughter at the same instant, loud guffaws that were making Sherlock angry. John grabbed Sherlock’s arm and shook his head, hoping Sherlock could read his mind right now. When the laughter had cleared away enough, he tried to explain verbally. 

  
“Sherlock, I can see why civilians would think that. The military does teach you about chain of command and following orders. But the guys giving those orders were trained the same way as the guys taking the orders. You have to trust he’s got the experience and knowledge to give those orders, but it’s your life on the line. It’s in your best interest to question every order, examine it from all sides if you have the chance. If you’re getting shot at, that’s when it comes down to trusting the other person.” 

  
“Don’t be mad, Sherlock, but John’s right.” Lestrade offered with a kind smile, hoping Sherlock could see they weren’t laughing at him but all civilians. “Cops receive similar training to the military, about following orders until you’re able to give the orders. Coppers aren’t as strict as military, since we have to be a little more creative in solving cases than just shooting everybody, but following blindly isn’t a thing we do. No matter how little you think of our brains, they are still working, even under a crisp salute.” 

  
“Maybe you two should date, you could not follow each other’s orders.” Sherlock sneered, but it didn’t get to his normal levels of contempt. Shoving past them, he stalked out of the alley and away. 

  
John sighed. 

  
“So, are you dating Mycroft then?” Lestrade asked, as strange sort of distance in his tone. 

  
“No, for pretty much the same reason I’m not dating Sherlock.” 

  
“Not gay and all that?” 

  
“Not anymore.” John muttered, but an intake of air told him Greg had heard, and understood. 

  
“What reason then?” 

  
“Talk to you later, Greg.” A nod, and John moved away. Was his reason really that hard to figure out? 

  


¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˉ\\(ɂ)/ˉ

  
Sherlock focused on the case before them, even managing to drag John through a counterfeit caviar ring and two sewers before it was all over. A week later, John managed a full shower instead of a quick wash up before falling into bed. When he woke, he wasn’t quite sure what day it was; he was sure that he was starving and didn’t want fish. He had very few clean clothes and the flat seemed to lack anything edible, but John wasn’t up to laundry and shopping yet. He sorted through the drawer full of take-out menus, trying to figure out what he was in the mood for, until Sherlock fluttered into the kitchen and finished off John’s tepid tea. 

  
“Afternoon, Sherlock.” 

  
“Don’t be imperious. You only just got up.” Sherlock muttered as he started the kettle boiling again. He’d sit down and let John make the tea, but pushing down the button was his version of helping. 

  
“I could eat.” 

  
“We could have eaten last night, if you hadn’t insisted on a shower.” 

  
“Sherlock, we smelled like a fish turds. I had no appetite and restaurants would have closed before letting us in smelling that foul.” 

  
“Angelo’s then, or do you have a date with Mycroft?” 

  
“Angelo’s would be great, if I’ve got any clean clothes.” 

  
“Tea first.” 

  
“I’m only getting the tea because we’d die of dehydration before you did it, not because I’m programmed to only follow orders.” John regretted the words as Sherlock stiffened at them, but forced himself not to apologize. The excuse of ‘just following orders’ was the last refuge of the guilty as far as John was concerned. 

  


¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˉ\\(ɂ)/ˉ

  
Angelo had seated them at their table when his name was called. He hurried away to deal with something, and a twenty something waitress came over. 

  
“I know Angelo will want to wait on you when he can, but in the meantime let me know if you need anything.” She smiled, pulling a lighter out of her pocket to relight the candle. “Angelo insists we make it romantic for the dating couples.” 

  
“I’m not his date.” John answered automatically, most of his attention on the menu. 

  
“Why not?” Sherlock asked. 

  
The waitress was smarter than Sherlock thought, and moved away from the table, though she might have lingered in earshot for as long as she could. 

  
“Why what?” 

  
“Why aren’t we dating? Are you dating Mycroft?” 

  
“I’m not dating Mycroft, or Lestrade, or Sally, for the same reason I’m not dating you.” 

  
Sherlock frowned in confusion, trying to find the common denominators between the four people John mentioned. 

  
John sat and watched the acrobatics of his friend’s face as he tried to work it out. It was a restful few minutes, until John started to worry he’d put too difficult a puzzle before Sherlock, emotions and relationships not being his area and all.

  
“Sherlock?” Getting Sherlock’s attention, John continued. “I’m not dating any of those people, male or female, because they have prior commitments that kept me from asking them out. They may be out of those commitments, but I don’t know that, and I don’t force myself where I’m not welcome. As far as I know, you’re still married to your work, because you’ve never said otherwise.” 

  
“What?” 

  
“I’m not dating anybody, because nobody has asked.” 

  
“That’s it? That’s why you tell everybody we’re not a couple?” Sherlock looked as close to flabbergasted as John had ever seen him. 

  
“Because it’s the truth, yes. If you want to change that, you can’t just do some mating ritual and not talk to me.” Maybe it was stupid, but until Mycroft used the word ‘date’ or ‘commitment,’ they were just two blokes who knew the Queen spoke Elvish.

  
“John, would you like to be my date this evening, and until such time as we decide to renegotiate the terms of this agreement?” 

  
Smiling, John reached to rest his hand over Sherlock’s, where it lay on the table. “Yes, Sherlock, I’d very much like to try dating you.” 

  
Sherlock’s porcelain skin turned rosy as he stared at John, blushing with happiness, though he looked a little shocked. 

  
Angelo popped up beside the table, breaking them out of their little world of each other. John didn’t move his hand though, and Sherlock’s blush deepened. 

  
“Have you decided then?” Angelo asked, broad smile on his face. 

  
“Yes.” John said, squeezing Sherlock’s hand a little. “We’re dating.” 

  
John’s hand was forced away from Sherlock’s as Angelo picked him up for a hug and a flood of Italian words. Sherlock got the same treatment, before Angelo took the menus and danced away, saying something about making his best meal for the new couple. Sherlock grinned at John as the resettled themselves in the seats. 

  
“We’ll need to wear protective gear when we tell him we’re getting married.” 

  
John’s eyes went wide and a blush broke out across his face and neck. “Married?” 

  
“Don’t worry, I’ll ask.” Sherlock smirked at John, though his eyes begged for understanding. 

  
Smiling back, John reached for Sherlock’s hand again. It was much too soon to talk of that, but John knew he was with the right genius at long last. 

  
  
  


¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˉ\\(ɂ)/ˉ


End file.
